


Lifeline

by ismyvoodooworking (coloursflyaway)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: D/s relationship, Explicit Sex, I don't know this is a thing which made me question my own sanity, M/M, Murder, basically a lot of disturbing things, lots of blood, mentions of whipping and other punishments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:36:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloursflyaway/pseuds/ismyvoodooworking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As long as Will hasn't killed, there is still a wall between them, and Hannibal is going to change that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lifeline

“Well done.” Hannibal’s voice is soft and yet no whisper, too steady and unbent for that, and Will can hear the faint trace of pride, of praise and it tastes sweet when he tries to wrap his own lips around the words, replicating them soundlessly. It makes him smile, feel warm although the wind is cold and harsh against his skin.  
But that doesn’t matter, nothing matters because he has pleased Hannibal and that’s everything he wants; that’s everything he lives for.

He only moves when he feels the other’s presence behind him, a solid, living chest pressing against his back, steadying him although Will didn’t know he needed support up until a few moments ago. Still, Hannibal knows him better than he does himself, knows what he needs and craves, what will keep him happy, and so he lets his head fall back against Hannibal’s shoulder, letting his eyes slip shut for a second.  
Without his sight, it’s even sweeter, because the trees fade, the hints and slivers of the moon, the stars visible between the branches, the girl in front of him on the cold, uneven ground; everything fades until it’s only them, or even better, only Hannibal, because by now, there is so much from the older man inside of Will that he sometimes doesn’t even recognise himself when he looks into a mirror. It’s perfect.

There is a hand on his hip, large and strong (so, so strong, Will knows that, because Hannibal only needs to use one and wrap it around his throat to make it unable to breathe), and Hannibal says, “Look.”  
His voice is still soft and if it were anyone else, it wouldn’t be enough to be an order, but it does with him, and Will’s eyes fly open without a second’s hesitation. There she is again, young and pale and dead, with dark hair spread around her like a halo.  
She looks like Abigail, and Will knows that this is intentional.

It’s only now that Will realises that his hands are dripping with blood from when he cut her throat (just like he has imagined doing with Abigail so many times before), that the blade is digging into the heel of his palm. He presses harder and allows her blood to mix with his own.  
Her screams are still ringing softly in his ears and Will isn’t sure if he likes it or not, and if he does, if it’s him liking it or what part of Hannibal is fused with him.

At first, when they had been driving out here, to the small clearing in the middle of the forest, Will had thought he would be allowed to finish it with her still asleep, seemingly lifeless with the help of a sedative, but Hannibal had only shaken his head when he had asked.  
He would have to hear her, would have to feel her struggling against his hold, see the life leave her eyes while she bled out, Hannibal had explained softly while he had stopped the car, turning around so he could look at Will with strangely soft eyes. Not proud, but almost.  
This was the last thing still standing between them, Hannibal had continued, reaching up to cup Will’s face, brushing a thumb over his cheekbone. The touch was light, as if to soothe a wounded animal, and Will had leaned into it, nuzzling into the palm of the other’s hand.  
He wanted this, didn’t he? He wanted to be Hannibal’s, wanted a bond between them no one could ever break again, and he would do what he was asked for it, Hannibal had questioned and Will could still remember how the other’s fingers had brushed over his jaw when he had nodded.  
It was all he wanted, to belong, to be completely and utterly taken by the older man, until there was nothing of him left anymore, until he could lose himself in Hannibal, and if he had to kill the girl which looked so much like Abigail for it, he would do it gladly.

In the back of his mind, he wondered if Hannibal was going to make him kill others too, people who happened to look like Jack or Alana or Beverly, and it was almost frightening to realise that he would cut their throats too, without hesitation.  

So Hannibal had woken her up, with an injection and a gentle slap to her cheek and she had blinked up at Will in confusion and he had seen how she had realised where she was, what was going to happen to her inevitably. Slowly, at first, as if her bruised body didn’t want to let her believe it, then so quickly that Will has almost stumbled when he had stepped towards her, overwhelmed.  
 It had been strangely sweet, the terror in her eyes, and maybe this was why Will had always been so good with empathising murderers; because there was one lurking inside of him, waiting for his chance to break through. Waiting for Hannibal to let him, just like the rest of him had been waiting for Hannibal.

She still had been slightly dazed, so hoisting her up against his chest had been easy, taking a second to smell the sweet scent of her shampoo before bringing the blade to her throat. His eyes had found Hannibal’s, making sure that the other was watching, that the other would _see_.  
And suddenly, she had started to struggle, almost managing to escape from Will’s hold before he could grip her tighter, pull her harder against him, wondering if she felt like he did when Hannibal did that to him, helpless and owned and wonderful.  
 _It’s going to be alright, I will make all of this go away_ , he had whispered into her hair smelling of cinnamon and apples and chemicals, because his voice did not have the same steady quality Hannibal’s did, and he had drawn the blade across her throat with one, strong, fluid motion. It had been easier than he had expected, cutting through tissue and arteries and sinews, and for a second, nothing had happened.

And then, there had been blood, so much blood, gushing from the wound, over Will’s hand and her shoulder, her hair, replacing the sweet smell with a copper-y one.  
Hannibal had been watching, and Will had not looked away from the other as he had held the girl for a few more moments before lowering her to the ground, so that he would be able to watch the life leave her eyes.  
Her hands had been clutching uselessly at her throat, but what Will had found so much more fascinating, so much _better_ , had been the sounds coming from her bloody, red mouth, weak, faint syllables which did not make sense and still sounded like a prayer, a plea.  
He had watched her die, slowly and still too fast, and she had looked so peaceful when her eyes had finally gone dull and lifeless. It was beautiful in its own way, and he had smoothed a bloody hand over her hair, brushing it from the red, red line he had painted on her pale throat before looking up.

Hannibal had been watching and Will couldn’t do anything but get up again, leaving her because although it was her he had just killed, it had never been about her. He had walked towards the other, wanting to share this, the faint taste of death on his lips and the blood on his hands, but Hannibal had shaken his head no, and the part the other had left in him had allowed Will to understand.

How long he had watched her, the blood seeping into the ground and her clothes, Will could not say, but it had only been Hannibal’s voice which had brought him back, just like always.

And yet, her screams still ring in his ears and he wants Hannibal to make him scream so he can forget about them. There is no place for anyone but the other man inside of him.

It’s only when the hand on his hip moves to rest just above his crotch that he realises that he is hard inside his pants, and it feels disgusting and filthy and exhilarating at the same time. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the killing, or because of Hannibal’s gaze on him the entire time, or because he knows that what he has done has pleased the other, but any thought about that is wiped from his mind when Hannibal speaks, his voice rumbling in his chest,  
“How did it feel?”, the other asks, and Will shivers against him, not daring to move back against the touch.  
“Wrong. Right. I don’t know”, is everything Will can answer, because he isn’t sure, not yet, because it was so much, so different to when he shot Garrett Jacob Hobbs, both better and worse. He can’t see Hannibal’s face, so he can’t know for certain if it was the right answer or not, if he is supposed to hate or love it, but the hand moves until it is cupping his cock through his pants and Will hisses, but keeps still. This could be a reward just as much as it could be a punishment.

“How did it feel?”, Hannibal asks again, and tightens his fingers around Will’s cock. It’s good, good enough to make him moan, because he hasn’t been allowed to come the last three days, no matter what the other had done to him.  
He is struggling to find another answer which fits (because he cannot lie to Hannibal, never), but it’s hard to think and even harder to find words for something so indescribable. “Different”, he gasps out and arches his back a little, hoping that this time, the answer has been the right one.

It hasn’t been, because Hannibal asks again, “How did it feel?”  
He is palming Will through his pants now, slow, torturous movements and Will would kill another fifty girls to make sure Hannibal doesn’t stop. And he lets go, says the first thing which comes to his mind. “Powerful. It…it felt as if I had all the power I ever wanted to have”, he forces out between his lips and tastes truth on them. Hannibal has said something like this once, a long time ago, and the thought almost makes him smile. “I felt like you… as if I was becoming you.”

It has to have been the right answer, or at least close to it, because the other suddenly stops his movements, lets his hand fall back to his side and steps away. “Strip.”  
This time, it’s a real, proper command and Will obeys, stumbling and almost falling over as he pulls the shirt over his head, gets his pants open and kicks them off. He’s cold, and the wind is still harsh against his skin, but he ignores it gladly, if it means that Hannibal will be pleased with him.

“On your hands and knees”, comes the next command and Will feels his heart speed up, because when Hannibal fucks him, it’s usually like this, so that he can see all the old and new marks he has left on Will’s back, with whips and hot wax and his teeth and lips. The bruises on his arse and thighs the other’s hand has left.

The ground is hard and there are small stones and twigs digging into his palms, but Will doesn’t move once he is in position, just waits. He is used to pain, to being uncomfortable, and if this is the only thing he has to endure to feel Hannibal’s cock inside of him again, then he’ll do so without even thinking twice about it, because it’s been weeks and he is craving to feel owned, marked again.

Because having Hannibal fuck him is a reward he is not granted often, maybe once, twice a month, although he would gladly spread his legs several times a day for the other man. He isn’t even allowed to come most days, although the punishments leave him hard and aching every time; and if he is, it’s only his own hands Hannibal allows him to use. Or no hands at all, when the other is stretching him open like he does each morning, though more to see how much Will can take without breaking and not to give pleasure. Which doesn’t stop Will from liking, loving it nonetheless, and, even if he knows that most times he won’t be allowed to come, thrusting back against the intrusion, fucking himself on the fingers like a wanton whore. Sometimes, Hannibal has mercy on him, allows him to lose himself in the friction and the stretch, the burn until the drag of Hannibal’s fingertips over his prostate pushes him over the edge. Nothing else, though, no touch on his cock, not even from his own hands.

If he comes without permission, which has happened a few, terrible times, there is no punishment, no touch, not even a word or a glance Hannibal spares him for several days, and it’s worse than any pain Will could think of.

But this time, he has been good, maybe even good enough to feel Hannibal coming deep, deep inside of him, marking Will as his in a way no one before him did and no one will afterwards, and it’s that thought and not the cold which makes him shiver.

“Spread your legs”, comes the next command and Will does, eagerly enough to make Hannibal chuckle under his breath. There is the rustling of clothes and fabric and then there is a hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, pushing him down until his chest, cheek is pressed against the dirt, his arse still raised high in the air.  
“Good boy”, Hannibal mutters softly and Will makes a faint, small sound under his breath, almost like the ones falling from the girl’s lips when she had been dying in front of him. His cock is aching with the need for touch, for friction, but still the feeling of Hannibal’s hand is more important as it follows his spine until it is resting just before the swell of his arse, as if the other isn’t quite sure if he is going to continue or just let Will stand up and get dressed again, to let him suffer for another day or two.

“Please.” The word escaping from his lips is more a reflex than a conscious choice. There was a time when begging had been the hardest thing in the world, but that is long since passed; by now it’s almost too easy.  
The hand doesn’t move, and Will doesn’t dare to breathe.  
“You have been very good”, Hannibal replies after a few seconds, but there is still too much contemplation in his voice to allow Will to relax. It wouldn’t be the first time that he has been good enough to be allowed to hope, but not good enough to be allowed to get what he wants. He waits and waits, but no words come. It’s cold and the stones on the ground are digging painfully into the sore skin of his knees (because he has spent the good part of an hour on them the day before, hidden underneath Hannibal’s desk and allowing the other to guide his head up and down his cock) and Will still doesn’t move.

And then, finally, the hand on his back moves until there are two fingers pressed against his hole, slowly rubbing over the still stretched ring of muscles It’s nothing but a light, teasing touch, but still Will has to bite his lower lip to stop himself from moaning, because beyond the actual friction, it’s a promise.  
Maybe Hannibal won’t spill himself inside him –he often doesn’t- but instead come on his back, his arse, maybe his face, but right now, Will cannot even bring himself to care.  
Letting his head hang down between his arms (there is no reason why he should keep it up, there is nothing to see but trees and bushes after all), he concentrates on the feeling, not daring to push back against the fingers and try to force them inside of him although he wants to.

The touches continue, still too light, as if Hannibal is trying to test him, to tease him until he’ll break and try to take what he wants, and maybe that’s it, maybe this is a test.  
And he won’t fail, he promises himself that, he won’t push back, won’t even move, because he needs to be good, not only because of the reward he might get but also because of Hannibal, because he wants to _please_.  
He doesn’t know whether it was a test or not, but after a few more moments which feel like years Hannibal seems to be satisfied with teasing because he pulls away for a second or two, busies himself with what Will believes is ripping open a packet of lube, slicking up his fingers before he thrusts two long fingers into him without any pretence of gentleness. Will wouldn't have expected anything else, just like he wouldn't want it differently, because he wants to feel it for days, weeks, if possible, the ache and soreness, even the empty feeling after Hannibal has pulled his fingers out again, because in this way he will always remember that he is missing something. That he belongs to someone.

There is something comforting in the way that Hannibal pulls his fingers out again immediately, only to plunge them back inside with a force which rocks his whole body forward; and for some reason it is only now that Will realises that this must have done for the other as well, that Hannibal must have liked it, watching him kill that girl, slit her throat just because he had been told to.  
It's exhilarating, like it always is to see that while he needs Hannibal more than he has ever needed someone in his life before, the other needs him, too.

Maybe that's what makes him moan out, and maybe that's also what makes him rock back against the next thrust of Hannibal's fingers, although he knows he most likely shouldn’t give in. It could still be a test, it could always be a test, but the other doesn't pull away, doesn't get up and leave Will right there, hard and aching and wanting, instead thrusts his fingers in deeper, twists them in a way which intensifies the friction, the stretch, makes Will squeeze his eyes shut.

Hannibal's fingertips are so, so close to his prostate, almost rubbing across it with every movement, so close that it has to be intentional that he won't be granted what he wants. It could be another test, but something about this feels rushed, a bit more raw, more rough than usual, and it's got to be that which makes Will ask, because if it was like always, he would never dare to.  
"Please", he gasps, lifts his head so that the breathless sounds escaping his lips won't be lost underneath his own body, "Just… I want to feel you…”

It’s his luck that Hannibal knows him so well, better than anyone else, in fact, because Will doesn’t think that he would be able to form more words right now, and yet the other understands. He knows it before Hannibal pulls his fingers back, before he presses the tips harshly against his prostate, twists them and rubs them over the bundle of nerves in a way which makes Will arch his back and cry out something that is neither a name nor a curse nor a plea. It’s a reward and a promise for more and then it’s over and Will feels more empty than he can imagine ever feeling, even though he knows that it’s the same he feels every single time, no matter how many times they do this.

A second passes in which nothing happens, in which Will can’t concentrate on anything but the dry ground beneath his palms and knees, the wind and how he is getting colder by the second, but then, there is a hand in his hair which drags him upwards, against Hannibal’s chest and Will has to repress a hiss. Sharp teeth bite down on his shoulder, easily finding the ever-present mark and making sure that it won’t fade for another few days. It hurts and Will loves it.  
And then Hannibal’s lips are brushing over the ridges of his ear, gentle and soft as they form a single word which makes Will shiver. “Slut.”  
It’s unusual for the other to use words like this, but that only makes Will enjoy them more, because the reactions always come with a certain hint of guilt, of feeling filthy and helpless and owned and while he would hate feeling like this around anyone else, if it’s Hannibal, it’s a brilliant edge to a brilliant feeling, making everything around him sharper and sweeter and brighter.

Will stays still, because he hasn’t been told to move, lets the other man slide a hand so that it cups his throat, squeezing just enough to make him remember each and every time Hannibal did this and only let go a second before Will felt the world slipping (sometimes, when it’s night and he is curled up under the covers, his skin on fire and his mind at ease, he thinks of Hannibal not stopping, of him going through with it, watching Will gasp and writhe underneath him until the last bit of life had left his body). His eyes slide closed, relishing the sensation which every touch brings with it, the familiar ones as well as the new ones, the blood drying on his skin, the uneven ground, the sharp wind, the taste of copper on his lips.  
When Hannibal talks, he feels it before he hears the words.

“You’ve been good, haven’t you?”, the other asks almost affectionately, like talking to a tamed animal, a caged bird. “Very good even… you deserve a reward for that, don’t you think?”  
The fingers curl around Will’s neck a bit more, grip a bit tighter and he gasps, both because of the sensation and the words. Because he wouldn’t expect a reward, but he still craves it.  
“What would you like?”

It’s a temptation, a reward and a test at the same time, Will knows, a choice for him to make, a reward of his own choosing, it would be too much.  
A few months ago, he would have asked to be allowed to come, but oh, Will has become so much better since then, has learnt and grown; even if it is a reward, he still can’t have everything he wishes for. He has to tread carefully, has to show Hannibal that he understands, that he wouldn’t ask for too much.  
So instead he gasps, strains against the hand around his throat just to make it a little harder to breathe before he bites his lower lip and answers, “Please… please, come inside of me…”

There is no reply, neither with or without words, and Will can himself growing more and more breathless with arousal and anxiety and the hand around his throat, and while it makes him even more aware of every sensation, it also makes him ache for more in the worst way.  
It’s how Hannibal likes him best, desperate and grateful for every touch and word, prepared to get on his knees and beg if it means a hand petting his hair.

It’s because of that that Will doesn’t expect anything to happen, because he knows that Hannibal is enjoying this, has to, but it’s only a few seconds later that the hand around his throat is pulled away, and instead moves to his back, pushes him over so roughly that Will hardly even manages to catch himself from falling headfirst on the ground.

Not that catching himself would make much of a difference, because the hand on his back makes sure that he assumes the same position as before, chest pressed hard against the ground, his legs spread and his arse raised high. If there was air left in his lungs before, it surely isn’t now, because Hannibal keeps pressing until Will can feel every little stone, every twig and splinter on the ground digging into his skin.  
He wonders if it’s on purpose, if Hannibal wants to leave marks on him, maybe even scars (because there is blood, he is sure of that), so he won’t be able to forget this. As if he ever could.

The hand on his back moves downwards without ever lessening the pressure, pushing and pushing until Will is gasping in pain. He doesn’t ask for it to stop, though, because Hannibal would, would stop everything and he cannot allow that to happen.  
It’s only when Will feels as if his spine is going to break any second, splinter under the other man’s strength that Hannibal lets go, pulls his hand away at all only to let it come down on Will’s arse, a slap which stings on the already (or still) bruised flesh.  
There is probably nothing he has done to deserve this, no foul word or disobedience, but it still feels as if a portion of guilt falls off him, because he is being punished, just like he deserves to be. And so the pain is followed by a rush of relief, because being punished means being forgiven, too.

Will expects more slaps to come, like they usually do, more and more until he can’t think anymore, can only take and gasp and cry, but Hannibal’s hand just slides down to his thigh, between his legs. It’s joined by another hand on his other thigh, pushing his legs even further apart until it is hard to even keep his balance.  
It’s now that Will realises just what Hannibal is doing, because it’s not to give the other space enough to settle between his legs anymore, no, this is to make sure that Will won’t be able to move, neither against nor away from him.  
The thought sends a shiver through him, and Hannibal lets him know it’s appreciated by letting his hands move up again, spreading his cheeks apart until Will is sure he can see his hole, still swollen and sore and stretched. There have been times when this special kind of torture would have made him try and close his legs, complain and maybe even insult, but although his cheeks are burning with the blush that he can feel darkening with every second, Will stays still, bites his lips and thinks he can taste a hint of the girl’s blood on them. And there is not only humiliation, degradation, only some twisted kind of pleasure to know that Hannibal can see just how he has left him, how ready Will is for him.

Hannibal’s hands move again, or rather, his fingers do (and Will wishes he could see, search for clues, for emotions in the older man’s face) until there is the rough friction of two thumbs rubbing across his hole, painful and pleasurable at the same time.  
It’s a small blessing that there is still enough lube smeared around his entrance to allow the fingers to slide inside him without the burn and torturous dragging of doing this dry, but that doesn’t make it anything close to pleasurable when Hannibal uses both his thumbs to stretch his hole open even more.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?”, the other asks, and Will would nod if he could move his head enough for it, would answer if he trusted his voice.  
His speechlessness seems to please Hannibal even more than an answer could, though, because there is an appreciative hum, dark and yet pleased, and maybe the pain is not so bad after all, at least not when it gets him a response like this, because even though Hannibal’s voice would sound steady and collected to everyone else, there is a hint of roughness, of breathlessness clinging to it which Will will store away in the darkest corners of his mind.  
“It should”, Hannibal continues as he had never paused, twists his fingers slightly and Will hisses because he can’t help himself. He doesn’t know what he did, but there must have been something, because even if Hannibal can be cruel sometimes, he never is so without reason.

“It should”, Hannibal repeats and Will nods without knowing why. “Because you’re mine now. Completely. You will hurt when I tell you to.” He pushes his fingers deeper, “You will moan when I tell you to.” The fingers shift, twist, and suddenly pleasure shoots through him, one single spark travelling up Will’s spine and making him moan, just like Hannibal apparently knew it would. “You will eat and drink and kill when I tell you to and you will love it.”  
It’s not exactly a question, not exactly a statement, but Will nods nonetheless, feels the twigs breaking and digging into his cheeks, and knows why this time, too, because he does love it already, has loved belonging to Hannibal up until now and will love it for as long as it will last (he wants to say forever, or at least for the rest of his life, but that is not a decision he will make, but the other man).  
He imagines that Hannibal smiles, only slightly and more with his lips than he does with his eyes (because his eyes are calm and the least bit cold, always and without fail, no matter what he is doing), like he sometimes does when Will pleases him.

But even if Hannibal is not smiling, Will has definitely pleased him, because those lips he has just been thinking of, those thin, curved lips are being pressed against his skin, on a gash left by a whip the day before. He sighs and Hannibal bites, makes the gash bleed again and Will hopes that that his blood is staining the other’s lips, is tinting them red and making them taste like copper.  
He doesn’t find out about either, because Hannibal pulls his fingers out with just as little warning as he gave before thrusting them inside Will in the first place, and he hisses again. If it’s out of relief or not, he doesn’t know, but any contemplation is pushed from his mind when there is there is the sound of foil and the sound of a zipper being pulled and Will is lightheaded with anticipation, because it’s been _so long_.

There is a pause and Will has to remind himself again and again that he was good, that he was so very good, that this is a reward, just to keep himself from moving or pleading. It’s hard nonetheless, not to at least look over his shoulder and see what the other is doing, if he is being left here or if he is going to be granted his wish, but he concentrates on the twigs and stones digging into his skin, on the wet patch Hannibal’s lips have left on his back instead, not on how his legs are still spread, his hole twitching and aching for a touch, to be filled.

It could be one second which passes, it could be five, but then it doesn’t matter anymore, because suddenly Hannibal has two large hands on his hips and is pushing inside of him, too slow to be considered anything but torture, and still Will can’t find the strength to hate it, because it feels far, far too good.  
Although Hannibal is not rushing this, is making sure that Will feels every inch of his cock, is moaning for every inch, it’s still all but gentle, all but sweet. It’s just a different way to claim him, one which requires less blood and more pleasure, but a claim nonetheless.  
And the other doesn’t stop until he is buried inside of Will, so deep that he can feel the fabric of Hannibal’s trousers against his bruised thighs, but while Will expects him to pull out again and fuck him into the ground right here and without any more delay, Hannibal stays still.

If it’s intentional or not, Will can’t say, but this is making everything more intense, the moment of pause where he can’t concentrate on anything but the other’s cock, how it stretches him, how it fills him up to the point where Will thinks he can feel Hannibal all through his body, in every cell. It’s addictive, and although he remembers feeling this way before, it feels different now, better and more intimate, as if there truly had been a wall between them he has broken down now.  
There is no thought behind it when he clenches down, nothing but the need to feel more of this, to somehow get the other man even closer, and in his position, with his face still pressed harshly against the ground, it’s the only way how to.

No immediate reaction follows (none except for a low moan which Will can’t hold back, because it’s too intense like this) but it’s only a few moments until the hands on his hips drag Will back another inch or so, hard and fast so it feels as if the motion, and the other’s cock are pressing the air from his lungs, the thoughts from his head.  
There wouldn’t be space for a wall between them now, even if it hadn’t crumbled down already.

Maybe Hannibal is thinking the same thing because when he speaks again, there is a hint of the possessiveness Will has come to need in his voice, only that now it burns with a stronger flame, ignites a fire which runs down Will’s spine and down his limbs, consuming him.  
“You will only come when I tell you to”, the older man says and there is both a threat and a command and a promise hidden in his words.  
Will nods and the stones on the ground dig painfully in his cheek, but it’s good, since, if he doesn’t concentrate on anything but Hannibal, his cock, his hands and voice and the wet patch of blood and saliva he has left on Will’s back, there is no way he will be able to last until the other has pity on him, not even if this is an express command, not even if Will wants to follow it more than anything else. Because although they just started, he is so close already, from the killing and the praise and the thought of Hannibal filling him up with his come.

Hannibal surely knows it, but it doesn’t seem to make much difference; the nod is good enough for him, because without another word, he pulls back, only to slam back into Will, with a force that will surely leave him bruised for days to come.  
Which, in Will’s mind, is perfect.

There is some pain hidden beneath the friction, the stretch and burn of being split apart like this, the roughness which comes with the only minimal amount of lube, but it’s nothing against the relief coursing through him, the sheer pleasure of being taken again. And he has been waiting for this for so long –only now, Will realises that Hannibal most likely planned this the whole time, to forbid him to come for long enough to make sure he will be desperate enough to do anything by the time this happened.

It might be that time passes more easily now, or maybe Hannibal just grew tired of waiting, of teasing (or maybe, it’s just hard to stop now that he started, Will thinks but doesn’t allow himself to hope), but in any way, it doesn’t take long until one thrust turns into two, into five and Will can feel the skin covering his chest breaking and being rubbed raw, knows that there will be a vicious cut on his cheek the next day where somewhere beneath the dirt, a shard of glass has been waiting to slice into his flesh, and yet he does nothing to make the other stop.  
Doesn’t want to do anything.

It has always been addictive to lose himself in this, in Hannibal, but this time, it is even more than that, because he is truly losing, giving up and allowing the other to seep into his very core, something of Hannibal pushed inside of him with every rough thrust. Because rough they are, and continue to be, the other man’s hips snapping and his hands pulling Will back at the same time, doubling the force.  
The thrusts are still strangely slow, deliberate and perfectly timed, equal parts of pulling and pushing which will leave hand-shaped prints on his hips, on top of the bruises, which Will is going to press against through his shirt until they’ve faded. The other deliberately avoids stimulating his prostate, but Will hasn’t expected anything else, since having the head of Hannibal’s cock brush against that one, sweet spot is a reward which is only granted if he has been more than just good, if he has been brilliantly, wonderfully, perfectly good; the pet Hannibal wants and deserves and not the one Will can be.

So instead he concentrated on the friction, on the drag of skin against skin, on the way the other’s cock seems to push deeper and deeper inside him with every thrust, how Hannibal knows just how to vary the force to make it impossible to catch his breath, to think, because one spark of pleasure ignites another, ignites another until it feels as if the world has shrunk down around them, melted away, the forest, the uneven ground, the car, the dead girl whose blood is still drying on Will’s fingers.  
His eyes are squeezed shut, both to intensify the sensations and to be able to listen to any change of breath, any moan or gasp coming from the other.

Hannibal has never been vocal during sex, and it’s another thing Will likes, that it’s all short, precise orders, sometimes well-chosen words to make Will’s knees weak (calling Will a _good boy_ when he has him on his knees, choking him slowly on his cock until Will can’t breathe anymore; a _whore_ when he spreads Will’s legs to remove the plug he has left inside of him, watching his hole stretched and twitching; his _pet_ when Will is slumping next to his feet on the floor, Hannibal stroking his hair while he reads), but sometimes, when Hannibal fucks him, he misses the sounds, misses the affirmation that this is something the other enjoys as well.  
And tonight, there are sounds, little, quiet intakes of breath when Hannibal forces him back, even softer groans when Will is impaled on his cock completely, sharp, hardly audible intakes of breath when Hannibal pulls away again; and Will loves every single one of them,

It’s the sweet knowledge that Hannibal wants him too, even if he doesn’t need him which drags the next moan from Will’s lips, louder than the ones before, more desperate and accompanied by another hiss coming from the other.  He wishes he could push back, could do anything, but it’s useless, there is nothing but waiting and spreading his legs a little wider to allow Hannibal to move him back and fro more easily.  
And it’s another few thrust which make Will feel as if he was too big for his skin, threatening to burst out of it until Hannibal changes the rhythm the slightest bit, goes even slower and Will can’t keep the low whine from spilling from his already parted lips.  
“How did it feel?”, Hannibal asks and it’s a question which sounds so familiar without Will being able to place it exactly, and he doesn’t understand.

Will is still searching his mind for an answer without finding anything when Hannibal continues, not missing even one thrust. “How did it feel to kill that girl? Did you enjoy it?”  
And it suddenly does make sense, and still, he doesn’t know how to answer, at least not when Hannibal keeps fucking him like this, as if he was trying to methodically keep every sane thought from his mind. Which he might be, for this could be another test which Will doesn’t know the answer to and so he stays silent, face down in the dirt and arse raised high as he tries not to think of how the older man’s cock is dragging across his oversensitive, overused hole in the most wonderful way and instead come up with an answer.

He never finds out if he could have answered because it takes only two or three more thrusts until Hannibal stops, buried deep inside of him but not moving. “I said, _did you enjoy it_?”  
His voice in unyielding, hard and merciless and dripping with the knowledge that Will is his and his alone and this time, Will doesn’t think before answering, not caring if it’s the right thing to say or not, because obviously saying nothing is even worse; is going to have him left alone here with his cock still hard and dripping precome.  
“Yes, yes, _yes_ ”, he gasps, moans and only realises afterwards that it’s the truth.

The truth is almost always the way to please Hannibal, the real truth which is lying deep and covered up somewhere in Will’s mind, and it is this time as well, because the other pulls out and takes a second before pushing back, making sure that Will feels every inch of his cock sliding inside and splitting him apart.  
“Tell me about it”, Hannibal continues and there is a bit of strain in his voice, just a lovely, wonderful little hint of breathlessness. “How did it feel to kill _Clara_?”

It takes a moment for Will to realise that Hannibal is talking about the girl, that that is her name; that she _had_ a name to begin with, and it makes it better and worse and completely different all at the same time. He doesn’t know why or how he starts talking, but he does, as if a dam has broken which he cannot fix anymore, because Hannibal’s movements have stopped again and he knows that talking is the only way to get them back. “She…she didn’t bleed, not at first, only looked at me… wanted to scream, I know she did, wanted to, but there were no sounds.. “  
It’s nonsense, useless babbling, but it seems to be enough, since Hannibal starts moving again, even slower than before, shallow thrusts which are supposed to tease and not to pleasure.  
Will just arches his back as much as possible, spreads his legs and ignores the strain in his thighs because it’s much more important to feel the slide of Hannibal’s cock inside of him as intensely as possible.  
“Her hair… it smelt like Abigail’s, sweet, and her blood…”  
 _Smelt like death and copper and salt and death and freedom_ , Will wants to say, but what comes out instead is a desperate, wanton whine, his hands clenching to fists.  
He is scrambling for more words to make sure that Hannibal won’t stop, that he won’t stop, won’t stop, won’t stop, but what he has said must have been the right thing, because before he can come up with some more rambling, there is the other’s low and calm and yet rough voice again.

“Did you feel her? Did you open your mind to her, did you allow her to become you?”, Hannibal asks and this time, Will doesn’t need any time to understand what it is he is asking, only time to contemplate. He can’t remember it, can’t remember trying to understand, trying to think like her, only the way her hands had been clutching at her throat, how red the blood had looked on her skin…  
“…no”, he replies and it feels as if it’s only now that he realises it, that this was the first person he has not allowed to get under his skin. No resonance, no echo of her being, just of her voice.  
And oh god,  the gift Hannibal has made him is even greater than letting the wall between them crumble, he only realises that now when the other pulls out again and stills before plunging inside of him again, as if he was giving Will time to realise.  
He didn’t feel her and yet he feels Hannibal, or at least as much as he has always been able to feel the other, and he is not going to let anyone get that close to him again, only Hannibal; how he knows doesn’t matter, because he does.

And it’s the second that that one, single, most wonderful thought in creating passes his mind that Hannibal thrusts into him again, this time with a changed angle, faster and with even more force, almost throwing Will off his balance as the head of his cock rubs across Will’s prostate harshly.

It’s like nothing else he has ever felt because his head is still swimming with realisation and pure, unaltered joy, and suddenly there is pleasure coursing through his body, strong enough to make the last bits of the world crumble around him.  
His toes curl and his fingers curl more and more until the fingernails surely have left bloody imprints on his palms, his hole, no, his whole body clenches up around Hannibal’s cock, trying to keep it inside, to keep them fused.

Of course it doesn’t work, but when Hannibal pulls back and slams into him again, there is the loveliest kind of friction against his prostate again, before the last wave has even been able to fade, the sparks mixing and mingling and increasing the force of the pleasure, until Will’s entire body is singing with it. He’s screaming, Will is sure of that although the sounds are muffled to his own ears, loud enough to make up for every sound the girl, that _Clara_ , wanted to make and wasn’t able to.

He’s so close that he knows that every touch, ever brush of a finger could set him off, make all of this drown in bliss, but Hannibal hasn’t said the words yet, hasn’t told him to come and although it’s the hardest thing in the world, Will tries to concentrate on anything but this, instead listens to Hannibal’s breathing, his hands, the fabric of his trousers against his skin.  
It’s getting more and more the other slamming him down on his cock and less fucking him, but it’s something Will is used to, because like this, it’s easier for Hannibal to keep the angle the way he wants it to, and now it is apparent that what he wants is to make Will lose his mind.

And it takes another minute or two, maybe longer (Will can’t count anymore, because everything has molten away to the point where he can’t even feel the stones digging into his flesh anymore, because that would require paying attention to a part of his body Hannibal is not touching), but then Hannibal goes still again, leans down and bites down on Will’s shoulder, reopens the bloody mark there and whispers against his skin. “Come.”

The word would have been enough to push him over the edge, Will is sure of that, but Hannibal still straightens and pulls him back on his cock again, just as forceful as before, if not more so because this time, the other’s hips snap forwards, make Will cry out and tense up as his orgasm wrecked through him, a wave of pleasure strong enough to make him forget even about Hannibal behind him.  
He might have blacked out, hell, he might have lost time, but when the world starts coming back to him, the aftershocks still haven’t faded, are still tingling up and down his spine, and Hannibal is still fucking him as hard as before, hitting his prostate as if he was trying to draw out his orgasm even further. It works, because when the feeling returns to Will’s arms and legs, he notices that they’re trembling, shaking, his toes still curled and cramping.  
Maybe he should move away, but instead he goes forces his body to relax, to go limp in Hannibal’s grasp, even though there is no part of his body which is not oversensitive and it seems as if this was what the other man was waiting for. The thrusts become even harder, rougher, and this is not fucking him anymore, no, this is Hannibal _using_ him, and Will loves every moment of it.

What he loves even more though is when the hands fucking him back on Hannibal’s cock start missing the beat by the matter of a moment or two, when the movements get slightly jerky and faster. It would be easy to miss, and although Hannibal already knows all of his body, and Will is still learning, he knows enough to know these signs, to know that this is as much control as the other is going to lose.  
And then there is a quiet, sharp intake of breath and another, last thrust (so hard that Will gasps in surprise, in pain and pleasure) before Hannibal leans down and sinks his teeth into Will’s shoulder again, comes deep inside of him.

It might be the one moment he loves most, even more than having the other man push him over the edge, because although he is shattered beyond belief, having Hannibal grant him something as intimate as this makes him think that maybe he’s not beyond hope, not yet. Not if Hannibal is here to help him.

Will’s shoulder is aching, there is blood trickling down his collarbone, on the ground; his chest is on fire and the cut on his cheek is stinging more with every moment, but he still doesn’t move, stays like this, bare back pressed against Hannibal’s clothed chest. Because they are close, so, so close, closer than ever before, and Will wants to cherish these last moments which are still a little like before, because when Hannibal gets up, pulls him back to his feet again, he’ll have the other inside his every cell.


End file.
